


The Heart of a Ghost

by GreyMichaela



Series: Remember [4]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, M/M, Pining, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-04 09:03:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17301770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyMichaela/pseuds/GreyMichaela
Summary: Jamie’s in hell, and the demon assigned to him has the face of an angel.It’s not really Brass’s fault, he tells himself sometimes. He’s gregarious, sweet-natured, and outgoing—of course he’s physically affectionate too.It’s a little more difficult for him to remember when Brass drapes himself across Jamie’s shoulders on the bench, or slaps his ass during a celly.





	The Heart of a Ghost

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CloudCover (RainyForecast)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainyForecast/gifts).



> RPF disclaimers apply. 
> 
> This is for knifeshoeoreofight, who shamelessly enabled the entire thing

Jamie’s in hell, and the demon assigned to him has the face of an angel.

It’s not really Brass’s fault, he tells himself sometimes. He’s gregarious, sweet-natured, and outgoing—of course he’s physically affectionate too.

It’s a little more difficult for him to remember when Brass drapes himself across Jamie’s shoulders on the bench, or slaps his ass during a celly.

He’s not sure if it’s better or worse that Brass is like this with just about everyone. Anyone who comes into Derick Brassard’s orbit is subject to his brand of absent, casual affection. Sid gets a bump to the helmet. Muzz gets headpats and a forehead touch. Rusty gets swept into a hug, Horny is squeezed until he’s breathless. 

It’s normal. It’s just Brass. 

Until he tries to kiss Geno after a goal. 

Jamie’s still out, recovering from his concussion, but he’s at the game, of course he is. And he has a perfect seat for watching Brass stretch up into Geno’s space, then pull away as if remembering himself. 

_ Oh,  _ Jamie thinks. And that’s that. He goes home that night and gets drunk. 

He’s cleared for no-contact practice and returns to the ice, loudly welcomed back by the team. Jamie accepts the hugs and gentle backslaps, grinning and dodging mock-punches. The grin slides off his face when he turns and nearly runs into Brass, who immediately throws his arms around him. 

Jamie stands very still and doesn’t think about how perfectly Brass fits against him, how he tucks his head under Jamie’s chin and how warm he is pressed to Jamie’s front, even through layers of gear. 

It feels like an eternity before Brass pulls back, looking up at Jamie with that devastating cherubic smile. 

“Missed you,” he says, and Jamie clears his throat and remembers to smile back.

“You’d forget how to play without me,” he says, and Brass chortles.

When Jamie turns to his locker, Tanger is watching him. Jamie raises an eyebrow but Tanger just shakes his head and offers a smile of his own.

“Welcome back,” he says.

 

Jamie can’t help watching Brass around Geno during practice, and he doesn’t think he’s imagining that Brass laughs harder at Geno’s jokes, seems more attuned to where he is on the ice, somehow ends up near him when they stop for a breather or on the bench.

He keeps skating, keeps his head down, listens to Sully and the others, and obeys the order to not push himself too hard.

As soon as they’re released, he heads for the showers and out to his car.

He’s not expecting Brass to fall in step beside him, and he falters. Brass gives him a bright smile.

“Want some company?”

_ From you, always, _ Jamie doesn’t say. He just shrugs, and Brass’s smile widens like Jamie gave him an enthusiastic yes.

Brass follows him back to Jamie’s place and they spend the afternoon playing MarioKart in companionable silence. Jamie gets them drinks and sits on the couch, far too aware of Brass on the floor next to his legs, back against the couch seat as he mutters imprecations in French at the screen.

After the fifth game, Brass tosses the controller aside and stretches. “Hungry?”

“I could eat,” Jamie allows.

Brass pokes his knee. “You can always eat.”

“Takes a lot to maintain this much muscle mass,” Jamie points out, and Brass pokes him again.

“You hear me complaining? What are you in the mood for?”

“You pick,” Jamie says. He watches as Brass goes through into the kitchen and comes back with Jamie’s sheaf of takeout menus, flopping onto the couch beside him entirely too close. Jamie doesn’t move away, but he clears his throat as Brass flicks through the menus, occasionally holding one out for Jamie to veto.

Finally he’s narrowed it down to three and he scowls as he examines them.

“Sushi, Thai, or Italian?”

He’s warm and solid against Jamie’s side, and Jamie’s too focused on keeping his body under control to realize Brass was asking him a question until Brass tips his head back and blinks up at him quizzically.

“Jamie?”

Jamie startles. “Sorry. Uh. Thai.” He doesn’t care, doubts he’ll even taste whatever they order, but Brass seems happy with his choice. He dials the restaurant without moving from his slouch against Jamie, and when he’s done, he leans back into the cushions.

“Thirty minutes. Wanna watch a movie?”

Jamie doesn’t want to watch a movie. Jamie wants to pull Brass into his arms and kiss him breathless. Jamie wants to ask if Brass’s feelings for Geno are a crush or something deeper. He wants to ask if Brass is going to act on them, if Geno knows.

“A movie sounds good,” he says aloud. 

 

Brass picks something with a lot of car chases and guns, and Jamie does his best to pay attention to it. It’s not easy, because Brass has made himself comfortable, tucked up against Jamie’s side with his feet beneath him, and it takes everything Jamie has not to put an arm around him.

He’s saved by the arrival of the food and they separate briefly to plate their meals and then sit back down to eat. 

But when they’re done and Jamie’s taken the plates to the kitchen, Brass yawns and curls up against him again, and puts his head on Jamie’s shoulder.

He’s solid and soft and sweet-smelling, and Jamie closes his eyes and prays for patience.

Brass falls asleep near the end of the movie, head drooping. Jamie fights an internal battle for several minutes before he finally gives in and works his arm free, wrapping it around Brass’s shoulders. Brass makes a contented noise and somehow relaxes even more. 

They stay like that through the credits, and Jamie mourns when the screen flicks back to the menu and Brass wakes with a jolt.

“Sorry,” he says, sitting up and yawning. “God, that was a nice nap.” He flashes Jamie a smile. “I should go.”

Jamie doesn’t argue. “Thanks for coming over,” he says, and follows Brass to the door, waving goodbye as he pads to his car and slides behind the wheel.

 

_ He’s your friend, _ he tells himself sternly the next morning as he’s driving to practice.  _ He likes spending time with you.  _ Still, he can’t help the way his heart jumps when he turns into the lot and sees Brass’s car.

But when he gets into the locker room, he’s greeted by the sight of Brass leaning against Geno’s locker, arms crossed as he talks to him, looking up at him through his lashes, and Jamie feels like he’s been kicked in the stomach.

He turns his attention to getting ready, changing into his base layers and stretching slow and careful, but all he can hear is Brass’s laugh when Geno says something too low for Jamie to understand. Is it really necessary for him to stand so close to Geno?

Jamie grits his teeth and keeps stretching. He even forces a smile when Brass bounds over to him on his way to the ice. Brass’s eyes are bright, his smile as heart-stopping as ever, and he bumps Jamie with his shoulder.

“Ready?”

“I’m not playing tomorrow,” Jamie tells him. “Sully told me earlier. They want me to sit out at least one more game.”

Brass’s smile dims but he nods. “Probably smart.” He jostles Jamie again as they reach the ice. “Miss you out there.” He steps onto the ice and skates away, and Jamie follows more slowly, wondering what’s wrong with himself.

Practice goes well. Jamie notices Sid talking to Tanger, their dark heads close together as they confer in quiet tones. Probably hashing out plays, Jamie decides. The Blues are a physical team, and Sid likes everyone to be prepared.

He’s not expecting Sid to fetch up by his stall after practice.

“A word?” he says quietly. “Have lunch with me.”

Jamie nods dumbly and follows him out of the arena.

Sid has an alarming addiction to cheese sticks, so Jamie’s not surprised when they pull up to Sid’s favorite restaurant. They’re shown to a booth in the back where they won’t be bothered—Jamie loves how protective Pittsburgh is of their favorite hockey player—and settle in as their server hands them menus.

Jamie can’t help fidgeting a little after they place their orders and the server leaves. Sid doesn’t usually do one-on-one meals unless there’s something important to discuss.

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to wait long.

“There’s something you should know,” Sid says. 

Jamie tenses, but then he realizes  _ Sid _ looks nervous, fiddling with his napkin, his eyes flicking around the booth without settling on anything in particular. 

“Um,” Sid says. “Fuck, this is hard.”

“Have I done something?” Jamie asks abruptly. The thought of disappointing Sid makes him sick to his stomach.

_ “No,” _ Sid says, eyes going wide. “No, Jamie, you’ve done nothing wrong. This is—it’s about me. You know how I don’t date?”

Everyone knows Sid doesn’t date. It’s not a secret. Jamie just nods.

“I’m seeing someone,” Sid says in a rush.

Jamie sits up. “Really?”

“It’s still new,” Sid says. “Really new. Just a few months. But, um. It’s serious.”

“How serious can it be if you’ve only been together a few months?” Jamie flinches when the words leave his mouth. “Sorry, Sid, you know yourself best, of course—”

“It’s a fair question,” Sid says. He still seems nervous, but not offended. “I’ve known this person for over a decade. It’s not sudden in that regard.”

Jamie considers this. He looks at Sid, who still can’t quite meet his eyes, and thinks about who he might have known for ten years and only just started dating, and why he seems almost embarrassed by it. 

He nearly falls out of the booth when he gets it.  _ “Holy shit.” _

Sid hushes him vigorously as Jamie straightens, staring at him.

“Seriously, Sid? Seriously, you’re—are you really dating a teammate?”

Sid closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “I’m dating Geno,” he says, and his voice is quiet but steady.

Jamie can’t do anything but stare at him. Geno.  _ Sid _ is dating  _ Geno. _ It explains so much—how Sid has been happier in general lately, the way Geno’s been even louder and more cheerful at practice and less angry after losses. They’re complete opposites, Jamie thinks as Sid shifts his weight, but somehow they balance each other perfectly. They make  _ sense. _

“I’m happy for you,” he finally says, and Sid takes a deep breath.

“Thank you,” he manages, and he smiles. “It’s—I’m still adjusting, I think. But I thought you needed to know.”

“Why?” Jamie asks. “I mean, thank you, but like… are you telling everyone? One-on-one for everyone on the team?”

Sid shudders at that suggestion, which makes Jamie snicker. The server arrives with their drinks and Sid thanks her politely, making her blush and scurry away.

“Geno’s handling some. We’ll tell the ones closest to us together. But I wanted to tell you because—” Sid chews his lip. “Because of Brass.”

Jamie stiffens. “What about him.”

There’s sympathy in Sid’s eyes. “I saw that celly too, Jamie. I’ve known about his crush for a while, but that cemented it.”

“What’s it got to do with me,” Jamie asks woodenly, wondering if he can just make a run for it.  _ Probably not, _ he decides, and waits for Sid to speak.

“Kris talked to me today,” Sid says, absently stirring his drink with the straw. “He says you’re upset.”

“I’m fine,” Jamie says immediately.

“Don’t interrupt me,” Sid says, and there’s a hint of captain in his voice, enough that Jamie gulps and shuts up. “How long have you felt this way about Derick?”

Jamie stares at the table.

“This doesn’t leave this booth,” Sid says gently. “But I need to know if this is going to be a problem.”

Jamie shakes his head. “It’s not.”

“Then tell me what I can do to help.”

“You can’t,” Jamie says miserably. He rubs his face. “I—it doesn’t matter. Brass is… Brass. I thought maybe he was making a move on Geno, but I guess Geno’s not gonna go for that. Whatever I’m… it doesn’t matter. I’m not gonna say anything to anyone. About any of this, okay?”

Sid just nods, but his eyes are thoughtful. “Anytime you need to talk to someone, you have my number.”

“Thanks,” Jamie tells him, and he means it. “I appreciate that. Does, um… does Brass know? About you and—”

Sid shakes his head. “I don’t think so. Geno’s going to talk to him.”

Jamie can’t help the way his stomach lurches at that. It’s going to break Brass’s heart, and he wants—he wants—

Sid is talking. “I’d like you at the Blues game, even though you’re not playing. I can always use another set of eyes, especially a player not distracted by being on the ice.”

“Okay,” Jamie says, gathering himself. “Yeah, I can do that.”

The server arrives with their food, and Jamie falls to with gratitude.

He thinks that might be the end of it. Sid doesn’t bring Brass up again for the rest of their meal. But he gets a text as he’s pulling into his own driveway.

_ Don’t give up, _ it says. 

Jamie stares at it for awhile, but finally locks his phone and puts it away without answering.

 

He can’t help watching Brass when they board the plane the next morning, but Brass seems to be his usual happy self, greeting Jamie cheerfully. Jamie relaxes a fraction and finds his seat, near the back where he has legroom. Brass takes the seat across the aisle and raises his eyebrows. 

“Cards?”

Jamie had planned to read, but he finds himself just as incapable as ever of saying no to Brass’s smile. 

They play quietly until they’re in the air. Geno, Tanger, and the others are absorbed in their own game, as evidenced by the outraged shouts from Geno when Tanger wins. 

A minute later, Geno stomps down the aisle and flops into the seat beside Brass. 

“Dirty cheat,” he mutters, crossing his arms. 

Brass looks delighted by his presence, but Jamie shifts his weight, the conversation yesterday all too fresh in his mind. If he’s right, Geno’s about to break Brass’s heart, and Jamie can’t think of a way to stop him. 

Sure enough, Geno jerks his chin at Jamie. “Go away,” he suggests. 

Jamie scrambles from his seat. “Bathroom,” he says to no one in particular, and bolts as Brass stares after him, clearly baffled. 

He stays in the tiny lavatory for as long as he can, unwilling to come back out to Brass looking shattered, not when Jamie can’t even pick up the pieces. He swears under his breath and puts his face in his hands. 

When he finally emerges, Geno is gone and Brass is sitting quietly, hands in his lap. Jamie avoids his eyes and slides back into his seat.

He picks up his book but all he can do is stare at the page, the words blurring in front of him. He’s hyper-aware of Brass a few feet away, still silent, and he has absolutely  _ no idea _ what to say.

Zach comes down the aisle and ruffles Brass’s hair as he passes. Brass doesn’t respond.

“You, um. You okay?” Jamie finally says, keeping his tone casual with an effort.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Brass replies. He doesn’t look at him. He reclines the seat and pulls an eye mask out of his pocket. “Gonna nap.” 

He doesn’t speak for the rest of the trip. Jamie wants to throw up.

 

They win the game, and fly home, the team celebrating noisily. Everyone except Brass, who puts his seat back and closes his eyes again, and Jamie, who can’t stop watching him.

He catches Sid’s gaze at one point but immediately looks away again.

By the time they land, though, Brass seems to be back to something resembling normal. He smiles at Jamie, although his eyes still look a little tight, and heads for his car without speaking.

Jamie goes home to his empty house and wonders why feelings are a thing that exists.

 

The next morning at practice, Brass is at his own stall getting ready when Jamie comes in. He shoots Jamie a smile and Jamie returns it.

“Come over after?” he asks impulsively.

Brass considers him but then nods. 

 

Jamie is nervous, driving back to his house with Brass right behind him. He tells himself sternly not to be stupid. He and Brass have been friends for a long time. Nothing’s changed.

He unlocks the door, holds it open to let Brass step inside, and closes it behind them. When he turns, Brass is  _ right there _ and before Jamie can maneuver around him, Brass takes a quick step forward and Jamie suddenly has his arms full of warm French-Canadian.

His arms come up automatically, wrapping around Brass’s shoulders, and Brass heaves a quiet sigh, pressing his face against Jamie’s shirt.

“Sorry,” he says after a minute, voice muffled. “I just needed—”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Jamie murmurs. He rubs Brass’s back, and Brass relaxes a little more. “Are you hungry?”

Brass nods and finally releases him. 

 

Jamie’s not much of a cook, but he makes a decent omelette, so he gets to work assembling ingredients. Brass sits down on a stool opposite and watches, chin on his hand.

“You could help,” Jamie suggests.

Brass smiles, bright and angelic, and doesn’t move. 

Jamie snorts and starts chopping mushrooms.

 

They carry their plates into the den and Brass crosses his legs on the sofa, sitting right next to Jamie even though the couch is huge.

Jamie hunts for the remote and finds it between the cushions. He flips through channels until Brass makes a happy noise.

“I love this movie.”

Jamie focuses on the screen. A very young Kathleen Turner is sassing an exasperated Michael Douglas. 

“What is this?”

Brass gasps. “Romancing the Stone? You’ve never seen it? It’s a classic. Young people these days.”

Jamie rolls his eyes. “You’re only a few years older than me, don’t start.”

Brass snickers and leans into Jamie’s side. 

They watch the movie quietly, Jamie only interrupting a few times to ask questions until he’s caught up on what’s happening. Somewhere in there, Brass settles more comfortably against Jamie’s side, until Jamie frees his arm and wraps it around his shoulders. Brass hums approvingly but says nothing.

When the movie is over, Jamie wonders if he should remove his arm. Brass is warm and comfortable snuggled up next to him, and Jamie would stay like this forever if he could. 

“Have you ever had a crush on a teammate?” Brass asks quietly, and Jamie stops breathing.

“Um.”

Brass rolls his head to look up at him. His clear brown eyes are curious, and his mouth is distractingly pink and soft.

Jamie clears his throat. “I’m, uh—”

“You’re not straight,” Brass says helpfully. “I saw you with that guy last year. In Chicago, at that bar?”

_ Oh fuck. _ Jamie closes his eyes.

Brass draws away suddenly. “Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, um… did I just out you? I mean, I’ve never said anything to anyone else. I just—wondered. You know. How you handled it.”

“Why?” Jamie asks hoarsely.

“Because you’re smart about these things,” Brass says. His voice is soft and terribly earnest, and he crosses his legs on the cushion, eyes fixed on Jamie’s face, and Jamie doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He settles for lacing his hands together in his lap as Brass continues. “You’re smart, period. I just—what did you do to get over them?”

Jamie shrugs. “I’ve never—I don’t know, man. It usually goes away on its own.”  _ Except when it comes to you, _ he doesn’t say.

Brass doesn’t look happy with that answer.

“Why?” Jamie dares to ask. “And, um. Who?” He wants to hear Brass say it, some perverse desire possessing him.

Brass ducks his head and fiddles with the hem of his pants. “It doesn’t matter. Either question. It’s—” He lifts his head, mouth set and unhappy. “It was never going to happen anyway. He’s got something a lot better than me.”

“That’s not true,” Jamie says sharply. Brass’s eyes widen at the vehemence in Jamie’s voice, and Jamie takes a deep breath. “Sorry. Derick, you have to know how great you are.”

Brass lifts a shoulder.

Jamie wants to touch him so badly it’s an almost physical ache. Instead he pulls away, his courage deserting him. “I have to—” He scrambles off the couch and gathers the dishes, making a break for the kitchen without looking at Brass, who hasn’t moved.

When he turns around, Brass is right behind him, and Jamie jumps a foot.

_ “Jesus.” _

“Sorry,” Brass says, lips twitching, but he looks nervous. “It was Geno.”

Jamie blinks at the non sequitur but just nods. “I know. I mean… I figured it out.”

Brass drags his hands down his face. “Does everyone know?”

“Probably,” Jamie says wryly. “You know how they gossip. Kris told Sid, and Sid talked to me about it.”

Brass cocks his head. “Why?” 

“He told me about him and—” Jamie hesitates. Has Brass been told yet?

“Him and Geno,” Brass says, and Jamie nods, relieved. “Yeah, Geno told me,” Brass continues. He chews his lip. “It’s fucking embarrassing,” he finally spits, and turns away.

“What? Why?” Jamie follows him back to the den, where Brass grabs his shoes.

“Because everyone knows about my big gay crush,” Brass snaps. “It wasn’t even—I mean, I’d have gone for it if I thought I had a chance, but it’s not like I was in love with him or anything! But now everyone thinks I’m…  _ pining _ or something.” He shoves his foot into his shoe as Jamie tries to figure out what to say.

“No one’s going to laugh at you or anything,” he tries, but Brass scoffs.

“Sure, man, if you say so.” He drags his other shoe on and Jamie clenches his fists, struggling to find words.

But they don’t come to him and he’s forced to watch as Brass pushes past him and leaves, the door clicking shut behind him with a terrible finality. 

 

Jamie goes to bed alone, thinking about what he can do to put the smile back on Brass’s face. It takes him a while, lying there staring at the ceiling, but he finally comes up with a plan.

 

Brass slinks in late to practice the next morning, and Jamie’s already on the ice, so he doesn’t get to see Brass’s reaction to the miniature cupcake Jamie had carefully stashed in his locker. Jamie was particularly impressed with the frosting, sculpted to look like the top of a strawberry complete with the little black seeds. His mouth had been watering the entire time he was picking out the ones he wanted.

Jamie smiles at Brass when he hits the ice but doesn’t mention it. Brass gives him a long, considering look, but finally he smiles back and drops to his knees to begin warming up.

 

The next day, Jamie tucks a satin eye-mask in the locker. It’s the same brand he uses for away trips, infused with essential oils supposed to promote healthy sleep, and this time he gets to watch as Brass lifts it out and inspects it, turning it this way and that before looking up and around the room. Jamie makes sure he’s looking at his skates when Brass turns to him.

“Secret admirer, Brass?” Phil asks cheerfully, plucking the mask from his hands.

Brass snatches it back and growls, clutching it to his chest. “Get your own,” he suggests.

Phil holds his hands up and backs away exaggeratedly slowly and Jamie finishes lacing his skates and heads for the rink.

 

It’s another cupcake the day of their next away game, carried with him from the bakery in Pittsburgh and protected from his rowdy teammates until he can set it triumphantly on Brass’s locker in the Wild’s guest dressing room before Brass gets inside the room.

Brass picks it up and turns in a circle, but Jamie doesn’t look, busy pulling his gear out and stripping down to put his UnderArmour on. He can see out of the corner of his eye when Brass eats the tiny cupcake in one bite, moaning quietly at the peanut butter and chocolate flavors combined.

 

In retrospect, Jamie thinks as the laughter and raucous chirps echo around the dressing room the next day, a bath bomb probably wasn’t the smartest idea to give Brass in front of twenty men burdened with too much testosterone. But Brass is smiling, even though his ears are red and cheeks are flushed soft pink, and he tucks the bath bomb away in his bag, so Jamie decides maybe it’s not a total loss.

 

Before the Rangers game, Jamie slips a copy of his favorite book into Brass’s locker. By now, most of the others have figured out it’s him giving the gifts, but for some reason, no one seems inclined to out him to Brass. They just watch, grinning, as Jamie puts his offering on the locker and heads for his own before Brass arrives, and then gather around to admire whatever he’s brought that day.

Jamie catches Sid’s eye after he puts the book down. Sid is smiling at him, quietly proud, and Jamie ducks his head as he feels a flush crawling up his neck.

Brass seems delighted with the book, exclaiming that he’s been wanting to read it for a while. He’s got it open on the plane ride home and doesn’t look up once for the entire trip.

Jamie smiles all the way home.

 

This goes on for several weeks. Brass doesn’t ask who’s been leaving him presents, and Jamie doesn’t offer the information. He just keeps slipping presents in when Brass isn’t looking. He’s particularly proud of the small puck cast in brass—it cost more than the rest of the gifts combined, but the expression on Brass’s face when he picked it up was well worth it.

 

Finally, Jamie is cleared to rejoin the lineup. They’re playing the Jets, and Jamie can’t  _ wait _ to get on the ice.

He comes into the locker room with a bounce in his step and comes to a stop in front of his locker. There’s a small white box nestled inside his helmet. Jamie does a quick sweep of the room. No one seems to be looking at him, and Brass isn’t even there yet. 

Jamie lifts the lid off the box and catches his breath at the sight of a slim leather bracelet inside, sleek and black. He picks it up, turning it in his hands, and forgets abruptly how to breathe when he sees the tiny brass nameplate screwed into the leather. It has an even smaller 19 engraved in it.

Jamie looks up wildly and sees Brass leaning against the door, arms folded. He arches one brow and walks away, out into the hallway. Head spinning, Jamie follows.

Brass goes to one of the conditioning rooms and Jamie slips in behind him. The door closes and Brass locks it with a quiet click.

There’s silence for a minute. 

Jamie holds the cuff up. “Um—”

Brass’s mouth quirks, but his eyes are intense. “You like it?”

Jamie would speak, if he could, but words have deserted him. He settles for nodding dumbly. Brass holds his hand out and Jamie gives him the cuff. He watches silently as Brass fastens it around Jamie’s wrist with quick, gentle fingers, dark head bent in concentration.

When he looks up, the sun peeks through the windows and lights him in a shining halo. Jamie blinks and reaches out blindly, reeling Brass in and catching his mouth in a hungry kiss.

Brass goes up on tiptoe, both arms around Jamie’s neck, tilting his head to give Jamie better access and moaning quietly into his mouth. It’s wet and hot and sweet and Brass tastes like black tea and something sharp and wild. Jamie decides he can stay like this forever, thank you very much.

He makes a protesting noise when Brass eases back. Brass cups his face, smiling up at him. 

“You could have said,” he murmurs.

Jamie shakes his head. “Timing wasn’t right.” He can’t stop himself from tracing the line of Brass’s jaw, rewarded by a shiver. “You liked your presents?”

“Yeah,” Brass says, smiling up at him. “Are you going to stop now that I’ve kissed you?”

“Not if you keep kissing me,” Jamie says, and Brass laughs and drags his head down to meet his lips again.


End file.
